


The Apprentice

by GVSpurlock



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: Angst, Brief Mention of Liz/Tom, Brief Mention of Non-Graphic Prison Sex, Character Death, Depression, Embarrassment, Gen, It All Falls Apart, Prison, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-11
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-02-24 22:41:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2599208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GVSpurlock/pseuds/GVSpurlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Red’s playing the long game with Elizabeth Keen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set before S02E08. This desperately needs a beta; if that's you, please contact me at unthoughtsilence [at] gmail [dot] com.

“We never did find a body,” Red said thoughtfully, watching Lizzie make her way into the shittiest of hotel rooms.

“No,” Dembe said. “We didn’t.” 

* * *

 Berlin had been dogging his steps for nigh on a decade. Ten years of pseudonyms, of a new hotel room every night, of bodyguards for his bodyguards, of Tor encryption, and multiple Cayman accounts. He had no intention of throwing caution to the wind by booking a suite under his own name or something similarly outrageous, but when Raymond Reddington let himself fall into bed, he felt a little safer than he had the night before.

* * *

Liz stripped off her shirt, feeling a little guilty as she thought about the watcher she’d had arrested earlier that week. Honestly, the accommodations in jail were probably nicer than the rooms in this hellhole. She stripped off the horrifying “duvet,” a plasticine table runner that stuck to the polyester blanket underneath.

She switched on the TV, giving absolutely 0 shits about the poor resolution. Jimmy Fallon’s open, friendly face appeared on the screen, and she muted him almost immediately. The light of the TV was pleasant; the shapes of people made her feel a little less alone.

The shower was the only saving grace of the godforsaken hotel. It was built before low-flow shower heads were a thing and the owners were far too cheap to replace them. The hot water ran out during morning prime time, since the hot water heaters also hadn’t been replaced, but at night, when she returned after a long day of shoveling shit at the FBI and then shoveling some more emotional shit after seeing Tom, a short-lived waterfall of nigh-on scalding water was just about perfect.

Opening the door and releasing a billow of steam into the hellhole, she felt her loneliness acutely. A year ago, Tom would have been waiting for her, tucked into their wonderful bed with mussed hair and glasses perched on the end of his nose. He would have looked up at her as she entered, promise hot in his eyes, stripping off her towel with confident hands. But now she was feeling sorry for herself in a shitty hotel with a little voice in her head that sounded uncomfortably like Raymond Reddington.

Fuck this. She was going to sleep.

* * *

“Keen.”

There was a hand on her shoulder, not as kind as it ought to have been.

“Wake up, Keen.”

Liz came to slowly, trusting the familiar voice and hands that woke her. Gruff, kind, safe.

There was a harsh, unrelenting pounding on the door. It rattled ominously and then crashed inward, splintering everywhere.

She was definitely awake now.

“What the fuck?”

A SWAT team surrounded her mussed bed and aimed to kill. Ressler still stood over her, cold and angry, dishwater blonde hair impeccably coiffed. She felt naked and very small, topless and disheveled in front of a roomful of men.

“Ressler?” Her voice was smaller than she would have liked.

“We found Tom,” he said curtly. “He’s told us everything. Put your clothes on. We’re taking you in.”

They watched her as she dressed, refusing to give her even a modicum of privacy.

“Am I being considered a flight risk?” Liz muttered out of one side of her mouth.

Ressler didn’t say anything. He didn’t even look at her. He stared into an empty corner, devoid of expression.

She was unceremoniously cuffed and placed in the back of a nondescript SUV. Ressler was not in the front seat.

A yellow DHL van pulled in front of the SUV and abruptly halted their forward progress. A team of professionals swarmed out of the back and had the agents accompanying her incapacitated in embarrassingly short order. The back door popped open and Red stood silhouetted in the early morning sun.

“Good morning Lizzie,” he said jovially, as though they were meeting in one of their usual spots. His hat tilted rakishly over one eye. “Haven’t you popped out of those yet?”

He indicated her handcuffs and she scowled at him. A moment later and the cuffs fell onto the floor-mat.

“I wasn’t actually planning on doing that,” she told him. His expression became unwontedly serious.

“I know you weren’t. But it’s time to go, my dear. The jig is up, as they say.”

“No one says that,” she bit out.

“You should have told me about Tom,” he said gravely. “I would have taken care of everything.”

“And that’s exactly the problem, Red. I couldn’t let you take care of him.”

“Apparently you couldn’t either.”

She had no response for that.

“The deal’s done, Lizzie. We have to leave and we have to leave _now_. Your career is _over_. Your marriage is _over_. There’s nothing left for you here.”

Liz stared at him and the mild expression on his face. Eyes slightly hidden behind the darkened glasses, but not enough to hide from her. She suddenly knew how the FBI had come to find Tom Keen in a dilapidated shipping container.

“Oh God,” she moaned, feeling panic for the first time. “You told them. You fucking told them.”

She started to cry. “I trusted you,” she choked out.

“I trusted _you_!” he roared back.

She shrank into the seat and gazed at him with betrayal in her eyes. She fastened her seatbelt.

“Close the door, Red. I need to wait for my escort.”

He stared at her for a long moment

“Close the door, Red,” she repeated softly.

He closed the door.

* * *

 The interrogation wasn’t brutal or anything. She’d had worse. The Stewmaker, for example. The bumps and bruises and explosions and gunshots and stab wounds and biological weapons… those had been worse. But they had all happened with her team by her side and Red as her secret weapon.

She’d been a suspect before, the last time Tom Keen sat in these rooms. She’d felt the isolation of distrust and the impotence of telling the truth and having no one believe her.

But this time… this time. She was guilty. She’d done everything they accused her of and more. She’d engaged in the psychological torture of her former husband, to say nothing of the physical indignities. She’d held him against his will, in violation of local, state, federal, and international laws.

It didn’t matter that he was an assassin. That he had hoodwinked her in the most impossibly intimate way. That he wouldn’t have batted an eye to see her dead.

But she’d locked up a wanted man for her own ends, lied about his death, and pumped him for information. So she was going to lose her badge, her friends, her team, her… whatever Red was… and she was going to go to jail for some undetermined length of time.

When she was released… if she was released… she would have even less of a life than she did at this moment. And wasn’t that a fucking terrifying thought. 

* * *

 The Cage wasn’t as bad as she might have expected. It was cleaner than her hotel room, as she'd suspected, and that  made her rethink some of her life choices. If she’d continued down the  path she’d been on as a teenager, she might have ended up in jail. Three squares, rec time, Sam buying her shit from the commissary, a pretty prison wife to keep her occupied. It might not have been terrible.

No Tom. No FBI. No Reddington. None of this bone-deep pain and loss and sense of betrayal. Just another stupid kid with a talent for sleight of hand and a bad attitude serving a nickel or a dime. It almost sounded nice.

And once she had that thought, she realized how entirely fucked up and destructive this train of thought was. She derailed it, with prejudice, and refused to let self-pity creep in as she curled into the hard-as-fuck bed and the heavily bleached blanket.

Oddly, she felt better than she had the night before. It was kind of freeing. Everyone knew who she was. What she was capable of.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuing an old fic! Set just after Berlin was brought down, before Liz & Red went on the run. Another possibility how this might have played out... [Completely canon-shafted.]

Ressler could feel Aram’s eyes on him from the opposite end of the Post Office. He didn’t particularly care. The warmth he usually held for his colleagues was wrapped up in a tight knot of betrayal and righteous fury. He’d seen Samar head toward him and smoothly redirect when she saw the thundercloud on his brow. He stared blankly at the screen in front of him, details of Tom’s captivity. He didn’t look quite so pretty without his glasses. The photos from the storage unit didn’t indicate torture, per se. It was dirty and damp, the chains restraining Tom puddled in the corner. It seemed uncharacteristic for Liz, who didn’t mind mess but despised dirt. Her name triggered a wave of resentment and an image of her bare back as she dressed to be brought in. 

He’d been positive that Reddington would have broken her out on the way there. Had absented himself from the caravan for just that reason. That was a test of loyalty he didn’t need to encounter. He was pretty sure he would have tried to stop it; he was equally sure he would have failed. As it was, the caravan had been assaulted, but Liz… Keen still made it to The Cage.

Ressler glanced at the stream from one of the cameras supervising the clear prison. Keen was lying on the cot near the back, one leg bent to let her foot rest on the blanket. Her dark hair spilled onto the thin pillow and her hands rested on her stomach. A little bit fairy tale princess. If princesses wore shapeless orange jumpsuits. 

* * *

Aram was mad as hell, glaring daggers at Ressler through the open blinds of his office door. He’d been so ready to believe Liz’s husband, no benefit of the doubt for their longtime colleague. Samar passed behind him, squeezing his right shoulder warmly and heading toward the lift, sending his heart to racing. She was restless, doing unnecessary rounds to keep herself away from Ressler and Cooper and their colleague locked up in The Cage. Aram could relate, but focused that restless energy on hacking his own systems, preparing for the escape Mr. Reddington had carefully orchestrated. It was an elegant plan. No loss of life. No loose ends leading back to Aram.

He remembered their earlier conversation… Mr. Reddington’s uncomfortably good eye contact looking through his soul per usual. Theirs wasn’t a paternal relationship, but perhaps more one of mutual respect. A little hero worship, perhaps, on Aram’s part. Also pants-wetting intimidation. But mostly respect. The small gathering listened carefully to Mr. Reddington’s Plan B… Aram was certain there were plans through Greek letters for Liz. No one was surprised by Liz’s refusal. And no one was willing to abide by it.

They each had their part to help Liz break out for good. There was no going back for her. Aram knew he would miss her terribly, and Mr. Reddington, too, but prison would burn all the light out of her. A life on the run was no picnic, but she was a survivor. A good student. Mr. Reddington would take good care of her. Better care than their team had taken. If she had brought any one of them into her confidence, things wouldn’t have fallen apart this way. They could have aimed for a controlled demolition instead of this catastrophic explosion of their collective lives.

He wondered idly where they might settle… if they would ever settle. Mr. Reddington spoke of so many beautiful places, full of glorious sights and sounds and smells and tastes. Perhaps he would introduce Liz to each of them, each culture, making her a citizen of the world. He could see her, dressed simply and stunningly in a sleek white dress, plunging down her back, at the bottom of which rested Mr. Reddington’s hand. In this vision, she looked lighter and freer than he’d ever seen her, unconfused and confident. Like one of the personas she adopted undercover, but not a mask to be donned. A genuine comfort with herself and her place. He would give a lot to see her like that, the concern smoothed from between her brows. 

Pushing aside the happy reckoning for his dear friend, he returned to his code, preparing for the careful extraction of one Elizabeth Keen. 

* * *

 Samar surveyed each level of heavily armed guards as the lift took her to the surface level. It was all very orderly — possibly too orderly. Post offices were meant to be crazed warehouses of anger management issues, with people frothing over postage and insurance rates. There was something hard in the eyes of the customer service representatives that didn’t broke any nonsense. Even the most entitled of idiots toned it down under their steely glares. She wondered that normal people didn’t recognize the suspicious bulges in the security officers’ jackets that were definitely not standard government issue. Or the suspiciously empty service desk covered with metal bars. With the right biometrics, you could use it to get the hell out in a hurry.

She caught the eye of one of Reddington’s men, one of the ones brought over because Ressler had never seen him. He usually worked in Northern Africa, but Reddington had called him in the night before. Bastard didn’t even have the courtesy to look jet-lagged. He entirely ignored her up until she brushed up against him, slightly overbalancing into his side.

 “Sorry,” she murmured, dropping the mini-SD in his pocket.

 The man grunted.

 Samar left him there. She had a few things to wrap up before this all came to a head.

* * *

Jacob was locked up in another Post Office cell, though Liz couldn’t see him from The Cage and had not been briefed on his whereabouts. He hadn’t been given his phone call, since this place didn’t technically exist anyway. Not that it mattered. The Major already knew he was there and he would come to get him or he wouldn’t. It was just a matter of whether he would get there before Reddington’s choice assassin. 

Jacob was taking bets with himself on who it would be with the invisible needle and the aneurysm in a vial. Current money was on Navabi, whose moral code didn’t seem to include the ten commandments. Ressler was out, blonde bastard. It had been wonderful watching that stoic face crack in the face of his wife’s… ex-wife’s… dirty deeds. But he was a boy scout. Not a hair out of place, not a toe out of line. Death wouldn’t come with a side of righteousness. Then there was Cooper. Loyal, ambitious, pragmatic. Depended on who held his chain. And there was someone holding it. No man was his own master these days.

He hadn’t expected this young man, though, with his open, innocent face and kind brown eyes. Perhaps that was why he’d been sent. No one would look twice at him for anything that had gone wrong. Whatever the opposite of the permanent scapegoat was… that was him. His nervous mien, though, that too was unexpected. Surely Reddington’s assassin wouldn’t be struck by nerves. No, this wasn’t an assassin. This was someone else.

“Mr. Keen,” the dark-haired man said, rather politely all things considered.

Jacob cocked his head to the side, summoning up the charming Tom that had attracted Lizzie like a magnet. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, Mister…” he let the honorific dangle.

“Mojtabai. Agent Mojtabai.”

“Agent Mojtabai, a pleasure. What brings you here?”

“Your wife.”

“Ah. Well, I’m not sure I can help you with that. I haven’t seen her since the last time she tortured me for information. Hard to keep up with a chain around your neck.”

Mojtabai’s face was not one made for neutrality. His brows furrowed at the mention of torture and a frown looked unnatural on him. He would be a terrible interrogator.

“Did she send you?” Tom asked mildly.

“No.”

“Did Reddington?”

Mojtabai neglected to answer. Tom took that as a yes. “What does he want to know?”

“I’m not here for him. He sent me, but I’m not here for him.” 

“You’re all so corrupt you don’t even see it anymore,” Tom informed him.

Every emotion was etched indelibly on the agent’s face, but he wasn’t angry or offended or any of the things government folks tended to be when accused of corruption.

“I don’t think that’s true, Mr. Keen, but… tell me. Why should you care about corruption?”

“I’m a taxpayer,” Tom offered, humming “Money Makes the World Go ‘Round.”

“Mmm,” Mojtabai said, glancing up at the camera in the corner. “I suppose. What do you expect will happen next?”

Tom melted away. Jacob shrugged. “Death and taxes. Possibly in that order. Do you know when the assassin is due?”

Those big brown eyes blinked at him, entirely expressionless. Mojtabai wasn’t quite as green as Jacob had assumed. “Assassin? Do you believe yourself to be in danger? You’re in the custody of the FBI.” 

“Is that how we’re playing it? Fair enough. I’m sure I’m perfectly safe, tucked away in the warren of cells.”

“Perhaps they’ll forget about you,” Mojtabai suggested. “You can rot here instead of that rusty box. Invisible chains and unattractive company and all the mystery meat you can stomach.”

“I doubt that,” Jacob said, though the idea was more concerning than the prospect of a speedy death. 

“I do, too. It’s more than you deserve for your faithlessness, Mr. Keen. You’re a fool. You’ll realize it soon enough.”

 “What will I realize, Agent Mojtabai?”

“That _you’re_ in love with her. Not the mask you wear, but you. And then you’ll understand the poetry you pretend to enjoy.”

Then he turned around and left Tom to ponder that bit of wisdom.

* * *

They struck at eight.


	3. Chapter 3

The lights went out. The men outside The Cage dropped like a stone. The circulation system wheezed to a stop, ending the flow of air freezing the concrete floors. Red emergency lights glowed as the backup generator hiccoughed. It wouldn’t start. There were no alarms. It was silent.

A shadow approached The Cage. Liz sat with her legs over the side of the bed, spread wide with her feet resting firmly on the floor watching their approach.

Samar got close enough to be recognizable in the dark, Dembe trailing her. Reddington wasn’t there, but Liz couldn’t imagine he’d be far behind.

“Liz,” Samar said firmly. “This is a waste. A disgusting waste. You cannot stay here.”

“I’m guilty. I deserve it. And I haven’t been this relaxed in ages.”

“You owe the world more than this, Elizabeth,” Dembe murmured.

“I don’t owe anyone anything! Not Reddington, not the FBI, not Tom! I’m tired of fighting these stupid battles; of being a badly-kept secret. Enough, already. I’m retiring. Get out.”

“You don’t mean that,” came another voice from over near the control panel for The Cage. The gears began to grind as the prison disassembled itself.

“No!” Liz shouted.

The walls pulled away from her, leaving her standing in front of her colleagues. The person at the control panel left behind the machine and stepped up on the platform to take her hands.

“No, nonononono. You can’t _be here_. You’re going to be fired! You’re going to go to jail! Please, Aram, don’t _do this_! Navabi, _tell him_.”

“I’m not telling him anything, Liz. He’s his own man and he sees what you can’t: we need you out there.”

“Aram, please, if you care about me at all — I need you to put it back and I need you to leave,” she begged.

His gentle expression undid her. “What you really need, Agent Keen, is to listen to me. Listen to Samar. Listen to Mr. Reddington. Going down for this is not going to help anything. Except the bad guys. So you need to go. If you care about _me_ , you’re going to knock me and Samar out and get the hell out of here.”

Liz was openly weeping now, trying to withdraw her hands from his grip to cover her face.

“Elizabeth,” Dembe said.

She took her hands back from Aram and wiped her face on the sleeve of her jumpsuit. 

“Not the nose?” asked Aram, flashing her a smile.

Liz choked out a laugh. “Not the nose,” she agreed. “Where’s Ressler?”

Amar mouthed  _Cooper_.

She nodded. “Okay, how do we do this?”

Without warning, Dembe clocked Samar. Even knowing it was coming, Aram lunged toward him. Liz prepared herself to knock out Aram as gently as she could, but Dembe beat her to it. He went down like a stone.

She looked up at Dembe, whose eyes crinkled even without a smile. “You don’t need that on your conscience too, Elizabeth.”

They walked out the front door. Out of her marriage. Out of her job. Out of her life.

Into a new one.

* * *

 

The back of the van had a pair of benches and the suspension was smooth as they drove sedately through the city. Liz sat, sniffling a little, her hands shaking without stop. Dembe grasped her right hand and held it firmly against her knee. Swallowing hard, she leaned on his shoulder.

“It will be well, Elizabeth. You will see.”

The safe house was an hour and a half outside the city, a Craftsman-style bungalow that she’d never visited. Its regular inhabitants were clearly absent, but Reddington lounged on a skirted sofa with a glass of something expensive gripped between long fingers. His hat perched on the walnut side table. He watched them approach neutrally as Dembe escorted Liz to the overstuffed armchair opposite the sofa before absenting himself to check in with the security team at the perimeter.

She was still dressed in the unflattering orange jumpsuit, but he still looked at her like he’d never seen anything more interesting in his life.

“I know this wasn’t what you wanted, Lizzie,” he began, blinking slowly. “But you’ll still be able to help your friends. Maybe even better, now that we’re not tethered to standard operating procedure. How are you feeling?”

Liz shrugged, empty for the moment.

“It’s been a hell of a day, sweetheart. Let’s get you something a little less fluorescent and turn in for the evening. Things will look better in the morning.”

“They usually do,” she told him, heading for the kitchen for a glass of water. She was going to need her meds at some point, but couldn’t bring herself to care tonight.

She poked through her feelings, trying to tease out the cocktail of emotions that had overwhelmed her earlier. They were there, subdued. But there was something new, though, something warm and bright that took her over as she changed into the delicate cotton tank and sleep shorts left for her. A perfect fit, of course. She rolled it around in her mouth, letting it fill her up. It was not dissimilar to the relief that had overwhelmed her when she had been locked up, the grand reveal. Not that, but close — hope, perhaps. Anticipation. Relief. It fizzled through her veins, chased shortly by sheer exhaustion.

Reddington watched her eyelids shut with a burst of affection and relief of his own, that she was here, under his watchful gaze rather than breathing the recycled air of that little box, and that the corpse of her traitor husband was cooling on the Post Office floor.


End file.
